


TLC

by beetle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Post-Inception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:26:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this inception_kink prompt, "Established pairing, Hurt/Comfort - Eames putting back together a physically injured Robert."</p>
            </blockquote>





	TLC

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I steal hearts, not ideas.  
> Notes: Set post-Inception, warning for implied violence, domestic violence, and non-con.

“Oh,  _Robert_. . . .”  
  
Robert returns to consciousness when someone says his name. Well, when  _Eames_  says his name, because who else calls Robert  _darling_  simply with the tone of their voice?  
  
He groans as determined, gentle hands roll him over then opens crusty, swollen eyes to look into Eames’s face. He appears to be deeply concerned and rather horrified—as he always does upon finding Robert bruised and bloodied . . . which is happening more and more recently as time goes on, ignore it though Robert tries to.  
  
But even if Robert can’t admit it to himself, he loves these moments when Eames—strong, sweet, solicitous Richard—scoops him up as if he weighs no more than a child, and carries him to their bathroom.  
  
“This can’t keep going on,” Eames says softly as he undresses Robert with utmost care, stripping off t-shirt and pajama pants, wincing and hissing at every scrape and bruise as if they’re his own. “This is . . . an abomination.”  
  
“Richard . . . don’t,” Robert murmurs through split, stinging lips that taste of dried blood, and Eames shudders, tipping down the toilet lid and sitting a now naked Robert on it. A helpless, tiny groan escapes Robert’s lips as yet another ache makes itself heard once more.  
  
Another pain Robert is far too familiar with, and knows he’ll be experiencing for the next few days.  
  
Eames kneels so they’re eye to eye, and Robert tries to smile, running his shaking, bruised hand down Eames’s stubbled cheek, enjoying the rasp of it on his palm—practically the only part of him that  _doesn’t_  hurt, sting, or ache.  
  
Though he does note the blood under his fingernails.  
  
Eames closes his eyes for a moment and presses Robert’s hand to his face, kissing it. “I’m sorry, love.”  
  
“So’m I.”  
  
Eames snorts and kisses Robert’s hand again then holds it away to examine it. He traces each bruise and red mark with his fingers, then places Robert’s hand back in his lap. The examination then moves to Robert’s face, feather-light fingers touching a swollen right eye and cheek. Despite the generalized ache that is his face—his entire body—Eames's touch feels ridiculously good.  
  
“I love you,” he murmurs, only for Eames to wince again, and hang his head. When he does, Robert kisses the crown of it. Eames makes a strange keening sound and hugs Robert to him, kissing every inch of him he can reach.  
  
“I’m so sorry, my sweet. I love you so much . . . I only wish I loved you better. . . .”  
  
“You couldn’t possibly love me any better, Richard,” Robert says gently, stroking Eames’s hair, ignoring the pain in fingers that had been twisted and mashed just a few interminable hours ago. Eames snorts again.  
  
“The tragedy of that is . . . you’re right.” Heaving a huge sigh, he looks up, his eyes shining and searching Robert’s so mournfully, Robert expects another apology, another set of stones to fall to the bottom of a well that’s rapidly filling with them.  
  
But Eames swallows the apology, if indeed he’d meant to make one. He blinks, and the shine in his eyes changes, becomes something less sorry and more businesslike.  
  
“You ought to leave me.”  
  
“You know I won’t.”  
  
“I know.” Eames swallows again, and stands up. He paces to the tub and turns on the hot water. Then he sheds his mustard-yellow jacket and paisley shirt, revealing the familiar musculature Robert both envies and worships. Even now, he feels the familiar stirring in the pit of his stomach that means he’s turned on.  
  
Eames sheds his trousers and underwear quickly, dropping them on the floor near Robert’s pajama pants and t-shirt. Then he pads over to the sink and the medicine cabinet. After consulting it for nearly a minute, he takes out a bottle of peroxide and a bag of cotton-balls. When he closes the cabinet, he stares into the mirror for a long time before finally turning back to Robert, his face gone unreadable, his eyes hooded.  
  
“If you won’t leave me, then perhaps you oughtn’t to push my every button so,” he says, quite reasonably, and Robert hangs his own head, guilt and shame rushing through him like fire through a forest. Eames is right, of course. He always is.  
  
“I’ll do better, Richard. I promise,” Robert murmurs quietly, the words as familiar as ritual can make them. He looks up apologetically as Eames kneels before him again, his grey eyes searching once more.  
  
“You'll always promise. And you'll always forget. And then I'll—“ Eames dabs at Robert’s lips, wincing when Robert hisses at the tiny pain. He always does, though he has, and surely will endure much, much worse. “Hold still. It’ll only hurt for a few moments longer.”  
  
Obeying, Robert holds himself as still as he can. Rusty-red cotton-ball after rusty-red cotton-ball drops into the sink until Robert’s whole face is one chorus of stings—but especially his lips, cheek, and brow.  
  
“You’re absolutely freezing,” Eames notes briskly as he stands up, dropping the remaining cotton-balls in the sink as well. He holds out his hand and Robert takes it, laughing a little when he’s pulled to his feet and swept up once more into Eames’s strong arms. They're the only place Robert has ever felt he belonged. “Were you laying on the cold floor since I left this afternoon, darling?”  
  
Meeting Eames’s suddenly good-natured gaze and fond smile, Robert’s breath catches, and he can’t speak, only return the smile and nod.  
  
Eames strides to the bathtub and steps in carefully, somehow managing not to jar Robert at all. “Right, I’m about to put you down—why on Earth would you lay there all this time, silly thing?”  
  
“I hurt too much to get up . . . and the cold felt good,” Robert admits, blushing. Eames makes that apologetic, horrified moue, and kisses the tip of Robert’s nose.  
  
"Down we go, love."  
  
Robert gasps as his feet touch the hot water, and leans against the wall when his legs start to shake. Behind him, Eames sits with a small groan, shutting off the spigot with his toe. “Alright, ready, dearest. Come sit.”  
  
He painstakingly lowers himself into the water, wincing when Eames’s steadying hands touch the bruises on his hips. Then, he’s submerged up to his chest in water that’s hotter than he likes, but which is no doubt perfect for Eames. It makes everything hurt in a chorus of pain so loud, it’s almost silent.  
  
“Mm.” Lulled by the near-stifling warmth, Robert settles back into Eames’s arms. He rests his own arms on Eames’s knees and rolls his head till his face is buried in Eames’s neck. He smells of aftershave, cologne, and faintly of sweat.  
  
Eames hugs him closer and sighs, kissing his temple.  
  
“Why,  _why_  must you make me so  _angry_  with you, Robert?” he whispers fiercely, his hands caressing down Robert’s chest. “Have you any idea how much it hurts me to hurt you?”  
  
Robert shivers as Eames’s hands reawaken the bruises on his ribs on their way to his lap. But soon enough, those shivers intensify for another reason entirely. “I said I’m s-sorry, Richard. I don't know how else to say it.”  
  
“Don’t be sorry, darling,  _behave better!_ ” Eames strokes Robert languidly, till he’s hard and moaning. “If I didn’t have to correct you all the time, I wouldn’t get half so angry, now would I?”  
  
“I try—you know I t-try,” Robert pants, licking and sucking at the salty skin of Eames’s neck. He can feel Eames getting hard against his ass, grinding against him almost infinitesimally, and for a moment, he’s quietly terrified. After . . . what happened before, he knows he’s still too sore and torn for Eames’s cock to feel anything like good. He also knows that he'll give Eames whatever he wants, even this, even now.  
  
And even if he didn't, Eames just might take it, anyway . . . something Robert isn't equipped to handle so soon.  
  
"I try so hard for you," Robert repeats hoarsely, feeling the weight of failure on his shoulders, lighter, somehow, than the hope of someday being perfect for the man he loves.  
  
“I know you do, love,” Eames breathes in his ear, his hand moving faster, all carnal efficiency. So far, he seems content to simply rub against Robert, and that’s a greater relief than Eames no longer being angry with him. “I see that you do, and I love you for it. But you must try  _harder_.”  
  
“I w-will.”  
  
“You'll always say that.”  
  
“I'll always mean it.” A high, breathless gasp escapes Robert’s throat and he arches away slightly as he comes. Eames gentles him for the duration, murmuring how beautiful and wonderful he is, even as his own movements behind Robert grow more pronounced. His free hand leaves Robert’s chest and slides between their bodies.  
  
“Bloody hell,” Eames mutters, his voice tight and strained. Robert turns just enough so that he can see Eames’s face. Those grey eyes are screwed shut, and Eames is biting his lip so hard, it looks like it may start bleeding at any second. Frowning, Robert leans in and kisses him till he stops biting his lip and comes against the small of Robert’s back with a soft, shaky sigh. . . .  
  
Robert tucks his head back under Eames’s and lets himself be held, arranged, and fussed over. This is the absolute  _best_  part—the part that makes every hit, every kick, every assault, every barbed, unkind word more than worth it.  
  
This, to be quite frank, is utter  _bliss_.  
  
“You really should leave me, darling,” Eames tells him quietly, kissing Robert’s hair, his nape—even pulling up his hands to be kissed and nuzzled.  
  
“You know I won’t,” Robert says sleepily, snuggling close and planning to stay that way for as long as the hot water holds out. As long as Eames lets him. “You know I won’t."


End file.
